


Wintering Out

by bluepeony



Category: The Hobbit (2012) RPF
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-06 03:48:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluepeony/pseuds/bluepeony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean O'Gorman has one goal in mind: getting away from the rat race of city life, and fast. He chooses rainy, charming Iarthar Island as the perfect place to relax and, most importantly, to paint. Inspiration ends up striking in more ways than one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Lots of snow and marathons of Father Ted = shiny new Irish islands inspired fic.
> 
> I don't own any of the characters, and I'm fairly sure Aidan Turner does not live on a made-up island off the coast of Ireland.

And suddenly, sheep.

Dean curses into the steering wheel, dashes of rain rocking his car. There's a savage wind whistling through the gap in the top of the passenger window where it's jammed and doesn't quite close properly, and it's making Dean hesitant to get out and manually shift the brood of woolly beasts surrounding him.

They're wet, bedraggled things, red dye on their wool a shock through hazy lines of rain. They stare at him, faces solemn, through the windows. Tentatively, he beeps the horn.

They scatter; Dean gives a pleased little chuckle as he watches. It's about the first thing that's gone right since he arrived on the island. He missed the first ferry due to unforeseen circumstances (his phone alarm failing to go off) and so stumbled from his hotel just after ten o'clock, do not disturb sign still swinging slyly on his door.

It's nearing three o'clock in the afternoon now, and the blue sky of Baltimore has faded into something dour and very grey across the sea. Another wasted day, and one he can only blame himself for as his camera remains tucked away, undisturbed, in its bag.

The engine of his boxy old Vauxhall Corsa, the shell of a thing he picked up after an hour of waiting in the rain outside the ferry port sipping strong coffee, hums throatily as they sludge together through trampled mud and gravel. It's all going well, considering, until the car rips out a pained screech, creaks, dips down low with a thud and refuses to go any further.

Temporary silence fills the car. Then Dean lets forth a string of much more colourful language, hissed in a steady stream beneath his breath as if someone might hear, beats the steering wheel a couple of times for good measure, and wrenches open the door so violently it almost bangs straight into the wooden posts surrounding either side of the road. He has to get out, he has no choice; his goddamned car has got its goddamned wheel stuck in a goddamned muddy ditch, _goddammit_.

Wearily, and aching with cold, he tries to examine the damage. Everything is so muddy, he couldn't see a thing even if he had a marginally decent handle on cars or roads or anything remotely practical. He glances up and sees through the rain the dot of a man coming towards him across the meadow and, being the only other person around for what seems like miles, Dean doesn't need to raise a hand to grab his attention but he does anyway.

The man approaches, walking briskly but clearly in no real rush, despite the cruel cold whipping them both. He's smiling, a muddy black and white sheep dog panting at his feet. He's an impressive figure with his tall body, his sharp, dark face and crunching boots, and other than the flat cap on his curly head his clothes aren't doing much to keep him safe from the rain. He doesn't seem to mind much.

“They your sheep?” is the first thing Dean manages to blurt out, jabbing his thumb in the direction of the retreating animals. It doesn't seem unreasonable that this man, however young, might be a farmer. “They blocked my path, I couldn't see this bloody... _ditch_.”

“You got yourself stuck, eh?” the man replies, casually surveying the damage with his hands snug in his pockets.

“I didn't get my _self_ stuck, there was nowhere else I could have gone!”

“Ah, so it was inevitable really!” the man says cheerfully. “Wasn't the fault of the sheep at all.”

Annoyed by this apparent lack of concern, Dean, feeling himself flush slightly with embarrassment, has to bite his tongue against any more curses, particularly ones of a Christian nature. He's in God Land now, he knows, at least if the crumbling cathedral on the high meadow is anything to go by.

“Any chance you could help me out? Please?” he asks, snorting as a particularly fat drop of rain lands right in his eye.

The man, at least, is nodding slowly, and it's now that Dean realises he's chewing thoughtfully on a toothpick. Talk about a stereotype, he thinks, a little cruelly. The only thing that would make this situation more clichéd would be the sight of the man in a gilet.

As it happens, he's wearing layers of plaid and a pair of muddy jeans and heavy boots and fingerless gloves and a rather useless flannel coat. He reaches out a hand and rocks the little Vauxhall thoughtfully, before nodding a second time.

“Aye, yeah, course we'll get you out. There's a log pile just up this way. You help me grab some timber, we'll stick it up behind the wheels, and you can get the car in reverse and feather the throttle. Sound alright?”

Dean nods dumbly. He's got himself stuck, clearly inept at traversing country roads, and sees little point in being asked for his opinion on a solution. He doesn't know either why he's so surprised by such easy practicality from this man. He's a farmer, perhaps, on an island with a population of less than five hundred; a pragmatic approach to problems no doubt comes as quick as his Hail Marys.

“Hey, thanks for helping me out, by the way,” Dean pants, once they've returned to the car with armloads of wood from some abandoned tree trunks up ahead.

They pile it up behind the stuck tyre, creating a hefty little platform. The man hauls in a few more biggish stones lying near them, and by the time they're done they're both filthy and drenched with rain. Still the man smiles at him, bright through the grey water, and rubs his gloved hands together like he's actually enjoying himself.

“Right! You hop in the car, let's give this a go.”

So they give it a go, and it takes a lot of backing up and a lot of careful acceleration and far more muttered curses (on Dean's part – the man just hums to himself and offers occasional encouragement) but eventually they get the car up and out, and Dean practically collapses against the wheel with exhaustion, a damp, unpleasant cold having already settled in his joints.

“Thanks _so_ much, mate,” he says, opening the door. “Really, can't thank you enough –”

“Nah, s'alright!” and somehow the man still has that toothpick rocking merrily between his teeth as he leans an arm on the roof of the shuddering car. “Think of it as an apology for those bloody sheep getting in your way, eh?”

Dean blushes stupidly, and turns off the engine.

“Course they're not _my_ sheep, though I've come up from the farm,” the man continues. “They're just having a nice afternoon off and Rove and I thought we'd come and have a look what they're up to.” He pats the head of the Border Collie sitting dutifully at his feet, tail thumping in the mud.

“So you _are_ from the farm, then?” Dean asks, embarrassed by how heavily he's still panting.

“That's right!”

“I'm heading there now.”

“To Maidin Mhaith?”

Dean blushes a second time, deeper now, because he's definitely been pronouncing that incorrectly. _Mah-jin-mah. Remember that. Mah-jin-mah_.

“Yeah, I'm staying for a few weeks,” he explains. “Just under a month.”

“Well, great! That's my territory, my parents own the guest house. And the farm, but I keep well away from that.” The man raises his hands, giving the exposed fingers a wiggle. “I'm not much good with my hands.”

Dean wants to laugh at this, because he doesn't believe it one bit.

“How about I give you a lift back in return for directions?” he asks, a little shyly. He's already regretting the snap over those wretched sheep, and his initial judgement of the man. “Or just as a thank you? It's the least I can do.”

“I'm a little wet and muddy. Rover more so. D'you mind?”

“Mate, I've been dragging this little box through the mud for no more than thirty minutes and I've already ruined the interior and got it stuck in a ditch. Seriously, climb in.”

So he climbs in and Rover hops in the back, a huge, wet tail hitting Dean twice in the face.

“I'm Aidan, by the way,” the man says cheerfully, leaning across the gear stick to shake Dean's hand. The wool of his gloves is damp and warm.

“Dean. Nice to meet you.”

Dean looks at him properly now in the relative warmth and dryness of the car. He's incredibly, quite surprisingly, handsome, in a work-rough and ragged sort of way. Dean feels a flutter of excitement. Then he wants to kick himself; he hasn't come twelve thousand miles to Iarthar Island for handsome _anything_.

Still, even when Dean looks away Aidan's scent lingers just perceptibly in the air. Through the dirt and the rain there's something about him which is unusually warm and smoky.

Dean steers them carefully around the ditch (once again having to bite his tongue against asking _why_ there is an unfilled ditch right in the middle of a main road) and Aidan tactfully keeps quiet until they're on their way again. At which point the talking starts.

“So where are you from, man?”

“New Zealand.”

“That's amazing! We certainly never get folk from as far as the Southern Hemisphere. Most exotic lot we ever get is the English. They love anything really old, they must think we're primitive. Sorry, that makes it sound like I dislike the English. I don't, you know, they're an alright lot, just really _nosy_. Not that we've got any over at the moment. In fact, you're the first guest we've had in weeks. You've come at a really quiet time, s'not even summer. Not even properly spring yet, as you may well have noticed.”

His accent is quite thick, and he speaks so quickly, with an unfamiliar lilting rhythm, that Dean finds himself having to subtly mouth some of the words along with him, just to make sure he's heard them correctly. There's a slight pause after Aidan finishes speaking while Dean tries to catch up with him and grapple for an appropriate response.

“Well, this isn't exactly a holiday planned well in advance. More of a spur of the moment type thing.”

“Oh yeah? What spurred you?”

Dean hesitates. It must be obvious, because Aidan reaches across to bat him on the arm.

“Hey, ignore me,” he laughs kindly. “I can be pretty nosy too, I'm sorry. Take a left here.”

It isn't a long drive, but it's quite an impressive distance for Aidan and his dog to have walked. There's no website for Maidin Mhaith – in fact, the brochure sitting beneath a huge pile at the travel agent's in Auckland had said there was no Wi-Fi on the island at all, which sounded _perfect_ – but Dean's relieved to see the guest house is a pretty standard affair. Old, of course, and pretty in that chocolate box kind of way. Ancient grey stone and lace curtains and a big red door. Friendly-looking. The land about them seems flat for miles, and the farm is huge and green but striking too, something Dean isn't used to at all.

“You got much luggage?” Aidan asks, unbuckling his seat belt once they've stopped at the end of the gravel drive.

“Not too much. A couple of bags and my camera.”

Aidan hauls both bags out with ease, but passes the camera case carefully to Dean, which is rather sweet. Dean takes it and holds it close to his chest, resisting the urge to kiss it. It's made it. The crippling anxiety he felt for it over the day-long flight was almost unbearable. But twelve thousand miles, and it's still intact.

“Right, well. Welcome!”

Aidan sweeps an arm out towards the old house, already starting up the path with Rover quick at his feet. Dean follows, gazing all about him into vast, vast green and grey.

“I'll put your bags here and take 'em up in a second, okay?” Aidan says once they're inside, standing in a cluttered but clean hallway. There's a narrow dark wood staircase and floral-patterned carpet, and an old hat stand so full of coats and scarves it looks to be in danger of toppling over. A neatly cross-stitched picture on the wall reads  _Fáilte_.

Aidan catches Dean attempting to decipher it for perhaps a second too long.

“ _Fáilte_ ,” he says, pronouncing it not at all in a way Dean might have guessed it should be said. “Welcome. _Céad mile fáilte_.” He pauses. “Dean, I should probably say, in case you don't know - Iarthar's a Gaeltacht.”

“A what?”

Aidan smiles. “A Gaeltacht, it means most people speak Irish.” Quickly, he adds, “But don't worry, nearly everyone speaks a bit of English too. And then you've got boys like Jimmy who don't speak any Irish at all. He's taking care of the guest house while my parents are away.”

“Your parents aren't here?”

“They're in Baltimore for the moment, been there since Christmas. It's no big deal, my uncle runs the farm and James keeps the house and there's a lady, Angela, she helps out too.”

“What do you do?”

“I man the bar,” Aidan says cheerfully, peeling off his gloves and hanging his hat on the stand by the door. “And I cook. You'll have to tell me what kind of food you like. You're not a, uh, _vegetarian_ , are you?” He says the word like it's new to him, something he's still learning to get his lips around.

Dean laughs, peeling off his coat, looking for a place to hang it. “I'm definitely not.”

“You might be saying differently by the end of your stay here,” a new voice drawls from the next room.

Aidan look at Dean, rolls his eyes good-naturedly before tilting his head towards the door, pushing through it, leading them into a large square dining room straight from the 1940s. Floral wallpaper, in soft pink and amber, covers the walls with a warm glow, divided only at the top by a dark wooden picture rail along which plates, painted and glazed, sit daintily. Behind the dark oak table, itself surrounded by six solid chairs, an open orange fire crackles peacefully.

Rover immediately lollops over to a big pile of blankets in the corner, to the right of the fire, and curls up. There's a man sitting at the head of the table, polishing silver with a yellow rag. He's quite plain but cheeky looking, dark hair like Aidan with round, mischievous eyes which fix immediately on Dean.

“This is James,” Aidan explains. “He'll be looking after you during your stay.”

“Nice to meet you,” says Dean, thrusting out a hand once James has wiped his polish-slick fingers on the clean end of his rag. “I'm –”

“Dean, of course. Couldn't forget your name, you're our first and only guest of the year so far.”

It's only February, but Dean still feels mildly embarrassed by the admission, as though he's bothering these people during their quiet period. Well, James at least. Aidan looks absolutely thrilled by the prospect of a new house guest. He doesn't even ask Dean to check in or pay, until Dean gently reminds him.

“There a reason you walked him here, young Aidan?” James calls over, as Aidan slides a heavy leather-bound book from the side table and finds Dean's name.

Dean doesn't miss the knowing glint in James's eyes, nor the new reddish colour tinging young Aidan's sharp cheekbones as he raises a hand to scratch at his wet curls.

“Found him out on the main lane, in a touch of trouble with Dad's sheep,” he explains, pushing the book towards Dean for a signature.

“Sheep trouble, eh? Would've thought you Kiwis'd be used to sheep.”

“Yeah, there are plenty back home,” says Dean, signing his name. “They just don't tend to congregate on the main roads.”

“Ah, well, that's something you're going to have to get used to over the next month. Sheep on Iarthar Island are like Indian cows. Sacred things, our main source of income, you know. Aidan's father's a bit of a celebrity in that respect, isn't that right, Aidan?”

“Yeah, that's why he can afford nice holidays to County Cork and we're stuck here in the rain,” Aidan says, turning that brilliant smile on to Dean. “How about I show you to your room?”

“Key's at the front,” says James, already back to polishing. “Number Seven. Bit of Irish luck for you there, Dean.”

The room is fine. Bigger than Dean expected. The only downside is lashings more of that floral wallpaper, but that's to be expected in a place like this. Hell, it's what you pay for. There's a dark oak double bed and a big dresser and a fair sized bathroom, and it smells good too, of orange blossom and fresh air, as though the windows are frequently thrown wide to let in the crisp Irish breeze.

“How old is this place?” Dean asks.

“It was built in the late 1700s,” says Aidan, twirling the keys. “Haunted as hell, you understand. The ghosts of tourists past.”

“Naturally. They friendly spirits?”

“Friendliest spirits this side of Cork Harbour! Though if they do give you any trouble just ring the bell and someone'll be up to sort 'em out. Now's there anything else you need?”

Dean looks around himself, at the low slanting roof and thick paisley quilt on the bed, and then at Aidan.

He smiles. “You know what, I think I'm alright for now.”

“Great! Well, I'll fetch you for dinner around six. Erm...” Aidan hesitates, dawdling over by the door. “We usually eat together, it's that sorta guest house. Unless of course you'd rather go more B&B and eat alone, that's fine too –”

“No no, eating together is great. That'd be nice actually, it's been a long couple of days.”

Once Aidan's gone, Dean stands in the middle of the room and finds himself, not for the first time in his life, at a total loss as to what to do now. What's more, he's not entirely sure how he actually ended up here. Because this is ridiculous, isn't it? This is totally absurd, this is... never mind. He's here now. He's staying. It's good to be away from home, away from it all. Finally.

He slips off his muddied clothes, finds a wicker basket to dump them in, and washes slowly beneath the hot spray of a copper shower head, groaning as the filth of three days' travel seeps from his body. The shampoo is violet-scented and glorious against his scalp.

Afterwards, the shower head drips incessantly. It's an awful tinny plink that goes right through him, and he can hear it all the way from his bed, the sound merging confusingly with the rain outside. He changes into clean clothes and dozes for a bit to the lull of dripping water, and wakes an hour later to a gentle knock on his door.

“Food's up,” Aidan says softly, when Dean calls him in. “Oh, did I wake you?”

“I needed waking, it's fine,” says Dean, rubbing his eyes. He's suddenly horribly aware that going to sleep with his hair damp has probably left it looking distinctly cockatoo-like, and with sleep-clumsy hands he tries his best to flatten it.

“Well, I'll let you wake up properly, Dean. You know where the dining room is.”

“Wait,” Dean blurts out.

Aidan pauses before turning back around, one of those severe eyebrows arched.

“Er...” Dean hesitates. “Could you fix the shower head?”

“Hm?”

“I took a shower and now it's dripping. I'm not sure if I've done something wrong. Think you could... take a look it?”

“Oh, sure! Don't worry, it happens sometimes. The pipes are pretty old and I don't think anyone's been up here in Seven for a few months now. I'll have Jimmy come see to it after dinner, how's that?”

Dean deflates a little. He'd sort of wanted Aidan to do it. Still, he can't exactly say so because that would be bloody creepy, so he thanks him instead and slides off the mattress, trying to look as though his travel-stiff bones aren't crying out in protest. Down in the dining room there's an open fire roaring, curtains drawn against the rain and a cast iron pot filled with some kind of stew sitting in the middle of the table.

Aidan fixes him up with a pint of stout and a pile of homemade soda bread too, and they're joined by James and Angela, an extremely lovely middle-aged lady with an Irish accent straight out of Wanderly Wagon. They talk a little about Dean's life in Auckland, but mostly Aidan and James tell him about the island, for which Dean is immensely grateful. He's never been good at talking about himself. Especially not when it comes to explaining impromptu trips to the other side of the world.

Naturally there's a lot to learn, but Dean gathers the main points being reiterated are that Iarthar's quiet, it's modest and it's isolated. That's really all he wanted. Occasionally Angela, whose English isn't spectacular, will break off to say something in Gaelic, and suddenly Dean won't have a clue what she or Aidan are talking about. Aidan's brief, apologetic explanations which follow aren't much help. Fortunately, James is just as clueless as Dean.

“I'm from Ballymena originally,” he explains later, balancing in the tub in Dean's bathroom, armed with a screwdriver. “That's in Northern Ireland. They don't speak Irish there. Didn't even learn it in school, not one bit, though my German's excellent. Took me long enough to learn what the name of this place means. You know what Maidin Mhaith means, lad?”

“No.”

“Means 'good morning'. Good morning! Can you believe that? Sun hasn't shone for near years on this island. Good morning, my arse.”

If Dean couldn't see James' impish grin he'd think he was being serious.

“Though it's a neat little place and the people are gems. I came here for a holiday like you, twelve years ago now. Never went back, never left since. It's like a little piece of rainy paradise. Not that I'm suggesting you do the same. I bet you're already dying to get back to your New Zealand glow. It's summer there, isn't it?”

Dean confirms that it is.

“Ah well,” says James, stepping down carefully from the tub, that incessant bloody dripping now gone. “We can't offer you much of a summer, lad, but we've pretty views, warm beds and young Turner ain't half a bad cook. Though don't tell him I told you that. His modesty's our selling point, it's what charms the guests and keeps 'em coming back.”

Tucking the screwdriver in the pocket of his trousers, James straightens up, fixing Dean with a strange, almost curious smile.

“What you here for in the dead of winter anyhow?” he asks, but there's no malice in his tone.

Dean would hardly call February seeping into March the dead of winter, but he doesn't question it. Maybe it snows right up till June around these parts. Judging from today's weather, he wouldn't be surprised.

“I'm an artist,” he says after only a short pause. “It's the usual tedious, romantic story, I'm afraid. I came here looking for inspiration.”

“An artist, you say?” James drawls. “So why Iarthar? Why not Cape Clear? Or Sherkin? Much prettier than these parts.”

“I heard this one was the most peaceful.”

“So it's peace you're looking for?”

Dean shrugs, toeing at the floor. “Peace and pretty hills, yeah.”

Finally, James' smile curves into something more genuine. “Well, there's no shortage of either of _those_ things here, that's for sure. You know, if you ask Aidan I'm sure he'd be glad to give you a tour of the place. Not much ground to cover, I daresay you could see it all in a day. Speaking of the young lad, has he told you about tonight's festivities?”

“No, I don't believe he has?”

James grins. “It's Friday, which means down at the bar drinks are half price and anyone who can cram themselves indoors is welcome. Lots of dancing and music and the fulfilling of essentially any Irish stereotype you can think of. It's sort of a tradition round here. The one night of the week we forget this island's staunch Catholic forefathers.”

“Sounds... merry.”

“Merry's about right, aye. You're welcome to join. Encouraged, in fact. Drinks are on the house for you, so you may as well make the most of it. Course I won't force you, you must be tired, but we'd be glad to see you. Aidan might already have said – it's that sort of guest house.”

“He did mention it,” Dean chuckles, already picturing the scene in his mind.

When James has left and the shower is quiet and the rain outside has thinned ever so slightly, Dean sits himself down at the little oak desk and pulls his rucksack on to his knees, rummaging about for his sketchbook, the cheap one he picked up in some paper shop an hour before driving to the airport in Auckland. He hasn't touched it yet, mainly because all he's seen in the past few days is taxis and luggage and the diagrams on the backs of airplane seats and rain and rain and rain.

He sets it on the desk now, picks up a pencil, poises it, pauses, puts it down again. He can't believe he's actually here. A week ago he was –

Never mind a week ago. That's the whole point of this trip, to take his mind off the hum of his own city. No more pollution, no more stressful commissions, no more uncomfortable family phone calls and definitely _no more_ relationships.

What did James call this place? A piece of rainy paradise. Quiet, isolated peace...

From downstairs a large roar flares, making Dean jump in his seat and send the pencil clattering to the floor. Peering out the window he sees, through the diagonal lashings of rain, a whole line of hooded figures filing in through the door to the house, and as he watches he hears the din rise from downstairs, the thud of wet boots and descending footsteps into the basement bar.

Dean gnaws his lip as he watches. Should he even bother heading down? He's not antisocial by any means, but this wasn't supposed to be a social trip. And anyway, what was it Aidan said? This place is a Gaeltacht. He won't even be able to speak to half of them, no doubt. Aidan said the English thought Irish islanders were primitive; Dean thinks, more than a bit guiltily, that as much as he doesn't want it to, his mind wanders in the same direction.

It's clear that Aidan and James aren't stupid, but something about Angela's use of Gaelic at dinner unsettles Dean slightly. He just can't imagine any place which uses such an archaic language on a wide scale to be particularly progressive.

Regardless, his mind's soon made up for him. From the basement comes a warm screech of strings, the experimental beat of something wooden and hollow, and then Rover starts barking, and it's clear that if Dean does stay up here to draw or paint or sleep, he won't be getting much drawing or painting or sleeping done at all.


	2. Chapter 2

When Dean heads down into the basement, he finds something astonishing. By the orange bloom of the fire he sees what has to be the entire population of Iarthar Island, men and women of varying ages packed in tight, into every corner and crevice of the wooden-clad tavern. Even kids and dogs are hurtling about, hollering, squawking, tripping and darting between people's legs even though it's late now, and should be past their bedtime.

Edging further into the room, Dean dodges an Irish Wolfhound hunting Rover, knocking bar stools and barrels in their path. The warm, roasted scent of stout and firewood, fresh smoke and rain-slick boots overwhelms him; he can hear the tinny warmth of a guitar, strummed fast from one corner, joined by the barely perceptible sound of a thumping boot, a march in time beneath the louder clamour of laughter, of a language he doesn't understand mixed with raucous, joyous English and the yaps of a puppy being teased with a packet of crisps by the bar, his friendly bullies jeering.

Dean makes his way shyly to the bar just as a single drum joins the din, chased by the unmistakeable laugh of a fiddle – no, two – Celtic and bittersweet, like he's been tossed into some historical epic. There's no electricity, no telly screens blaring a footie match. This is like no bar he's ever been in.

This is straight from some lost, long-ago place, and it's incredible. Everyone is _smiling_.

The children chasing each other are cackling – big mouths pulled back into gap-toothed grins – and the men at the bar are smirking into their Guinnesses, and the women gossiping behind their hands are giggling, and there are people in the centre of the room forming a circle, beaming, laughing really, and the ones launching themselves into that circle to dance are laughing too.

But Dean thinks Aidan – armed with one bright-eyed little girl no older than five or six – is smiling biggest of all, right in the middle of the circle of clapping onlookers and jostling the delighted child on his hip, the thump of his own boots and the clang of a buckle joining a myriad of others around him as they dance to this otherworldly music, these thick, warm yellow notes a rebellion, a stubborn clash to the storm outside.

Dean watches, quiet, as they all dance. It's nothing like the neatly precise step dancing he's seen on TV; this is rough and rampant, wild, and the way they stomp and jeer and _oi!_ to every rhythmic pause is gloriously uncivilized.

The song ends when the instruments quieten and the drum goes still, but another roars to life just as quickly, like every gap of silence must be filled. Aidan places the little girl back in her father's arms and the next time Dean looks over he's dancing with Angela, who's blushing like mad. Dean can't bite back his grin this time, especially when he catches Aidan's eye, sees the look of light-hearted surprise flit across his features before being replaced with something a bit more mischievous.

Dean averts his gaze, oddly shy. It's only when the song's over and Aidan's made Angela's face flush a second time with a ridiculously low bow that Dean meets his eye again as Aidan threads his way back through the crowd, leaving the dancing behind.

“You came down!” he exclaims, as though he hasn't been expecting it.

“Well this is an all-inclusive holiday, thought I'd make the most of it.”

Aidan laughs. “Absolutely! Gonna come have a dance, then?”

Dean casts a glance at the crowd of boot-thumpers braying with laughter.

“Maybe not tonight,” he says, and he knows he's being boring but he's not sure there isn't something terribly technical hiding beneath all that raggedy stomping and twirling.

“Ah, that's too bad. Alright, what can I get you then?” Aidan slips behind the bar and drums two hands on top of it. “Bearing in mind it's Friday, so your only options are stout and cider. Ciarán! I'll be with you in a minute, mate! Go on, Dean, grab a stool.”

So Dean grabs one, and as Aidan darts off to the other end of the bar to serve someone out of sight Dean sits and looks around himself, music still chiming loud in his ears. He feels a little out of place. The three men next to him seem friendly enough, but they're huddled together, speaking in that language he doesn't understand, and he swears one of them tilts their head to cast him a funny look. Then again, Dean _is_ staring at them. He quickly turns back round, and suddenly Aidan is in front of him again.

“Made up your mind?”

“Oh, cider's fine, thanks.”

“It's not just _fine_ , man, it's the sweetest, freshest cider on the whole island.” Aidan looks up at him from beneath dark lashes and smiles. “It's also the only cider on the whole island.”

“Do you make it yourself?”

“Well, the apples come by ferry, there's just not enough sun to grow any decent fruit in this place. But yeah, we mill them, press them, turn them into something good. Try that.”

He neatly finishes pulling a pint, only a little froth dripping on to his long fingers, and slides it across the bar. It's beautifully cold and fresh, the colour of blended honey, and the zesty fizz leaves a pleasant burn in Dean's throat.

“That is _really_ nice.”

Aidan grins, obviously pleased. “Ain't it just? I'm allowed to be cocky, it's absolutely no exaggeration to say I've spent _years_ working on that cider, and about a hundred other recipes. And d'you know why? Because there's nothing to do around here! I'm _so_ glad you're here, place has been dead for months.”

Dean glances around himself. Doesn't look very dead to him.

“Well,” says Aidan, “dead every day of the week but Friday. No visitors, no sunshine, no news – sorry, I'm really putting you off the place, aren't I?”

“I'd say you're making me a lot more interested in it actually. Since I'm here to paint, some peace and quiet sounds excellent.”

“You're here to paint?”

“Oh – sorry, I just assumed James would have told you.”

“No, he didn't!” says Aidan, and by this point he looks positively delighted. “And _you_ didn't either. Kept that buttoned up at dinner! I'm sorry, it was probably me, wasn't it? Everyone says I talk too much, I don't mean to. I drank half a bottle of Cheracol cough syrup when I was a snapper, my mother says it's because of that. But hey, you're a painter! That's amazing. What kind of things do you paint? Is it your job?”

Dean laughs, a little overwhelmed. “Most of my income relies on photography, but sometimes I sell paintings too. Landscapes, mostly. Sometimes portraits, but they tend to be more... personal.”

As soon as he's said it he realises how shifty it sounds, but if Aidan thinks so he doesn't say anything. He smiles, big and broad like Dean's his oldest friend, and opens his mouth to speak when something else catches his eye.

“Bugger, said I'd see to Ciarán, didn't I? Give us half a second, Dean. Oh great, he's brought his brother. Make that a whole second. Bloke hates me ever since Rover thrashed his collie in last year's sheepdog trials.”

Rover, as it happens, is sitting patiently at Dean's feet, tail swishing against the floor. Dean notices him and jumps a little, startled. Then he's rather flattered. Then he realises the bowl of peanuts is right by his elbow. Rolling his eyes, he tosses a couple down and Rover eagerly snaps them up.

Normally, in this sort of situation, alone at the bar, Dean would strike up a conversation with someone else. The problem is, the people who aren't still dancing have broken off into these large, rowdy groups, and he can't exactly just burst in on them. He doesn't know their language or their names, and he's warmed by but doesn't exactly understand the vigorous dancing. Why dance every week, if you know everyone already? Back in Auckland, there's only a handful of reasons behind dancing in clubs and bars, and strengthening community spirit is rarely one of them.

Apparently Aidan's mind works in an opposite direction to Dean's, like your brain's supposed to flip the other way past the equator and Dean's is somehow taking a little time to realise where he is. When Aidan returns he taps Dean on the shoulder.

“Come on, let's go while everyone in here's still sucking on their Guinness bottles like babies,” he says, taking Dean gently by the wrist. “I want to introduce you to my friends.”

The thing is, _everyone_ is Aidan's friend. It takes a long time for them to even make it to the table Aidan has in mind, the big round one in the corner with James at the head of it and about twelve other men surrounding it like disciples. Everyone keeps stopping Aidan on his way there, telling him thanks for the whiskey marmalade last week and cheers for the spare crosscut saw, it worked a treat on the garden fence, and asking after his mam, asking after his uncle, asking after Rover and James, asking who's your new friend, Aidan, wondering if Aidan could grab them another pint or three.

The questions don't stop even when they do sit down, though Aidan's friends regard Dean with a slightly wary eye once their gruff _dia duit_ s and _how ya_ s are met with Aidan's cheery, “Dean's from New Zealand!”

One of them, Ronan, young and very hairy but only mildly terrifying, loudly inquires as to what, exactly, a sun-beaten Kiwi could want to do with a tiny fuck-off island like Iarthar (in those exact words). Dean timidly tells him he's an artist.

“An artist, yeh say?” Ronan arches one extremely thick, red eyebrow. “And I suppose, my lad, I just suppose you have a _degree_ for that?”

Now, Dean's always been secure in the knowledge that he has a decent sense of humour, but he's pretty sure that what Ronan has just said in no way constitutes a joke. There isn't even a punchline. And yet round the table a laugh erupts in one big circular motion, and Dean's left bewildered, hastily trying to cast his mind back to ten seconds ago to see if there was anything he might have missed.

Aidan, apparently noting this discomfort, slings a friendly arm around him.

“He's _joking_ , Dean,” he laughs.

Dean necks his pint rather than trying to force out a laugh of his own. It's a little mean to think so, but he can't pretend he isn't glad when, just under an hour or so later, people begin leaving. Once the tavern's completely deserted bar the two of them and James, he helps collect up the glasses. He manages four at a time. Aidan stacks them up by their tens, and talks all the while.

“Can you believe,” he says, making a clean sweep of another table, “it was only last year we got a glasswasher? It's the law, you know, you're supposed to have one in any pub, but no one ever bothered to come and investigate before so my mother just had us wash them by hand. Every last one of them, by hand! Can you imagine? My fingers were worn down to bone by the end of it.”

“Ah, stop complaining,” James drawls, flicking him on the head with a tea-towel on his way past. “You passed up good, hard manual labour in favour of this life, lad. You could've been out toiling those fields of your father's.”

“Yes, but...” Aidan stops himself, looking unusually flustered.

James grins. “But..?”

Aidan shakes his head, curls bouncing, and points an accusatory finger at his friend. “We don't talk about that. Now go lock up the back, troublesome old northerner.”

When James has gone and the glasses are up on the bartop, ready to be stacked in the glasswasher, Dean offers Aidan a smile of his own, feeling friendly and light and only a little woozy from the cider.

“What happened with the farm? Why aren't you out toiling the fields?”

“Oi, I said we don't talk about that!” But still Aidan smiles, warmly, like he doesn't really mind. “Thanks for helping out, by the way. You didn't have to do that.”

“That's alright, I wanted to be of some use.”

“God, Dean, you're a guest! Go get some sleep, man. D'you have any plans for tomorrow?”

“Thought I'd see how the weather is and maybe venture out and explore a bit. James, erm...” Dean hesitates. Suddenly the cider doesn't seem to be having much of an effect anymore. In the face of Aidan's friendly, curious gaze he's strangely shy again. “James said you might be able to show me round some time. I mean, not necessarily tomorrow because I know you might be busy and everything, but just... some time. So I don't get lost! Because I do have a tendency to do that. Get lost, I mean. Bit hopeless with, you know, maps and stuff. It's a wonder I even made it to this part of the world. Trust me, there were a few times I thought I might not!”

He laughs, nervous, unable to understand why this feels like such a big favour to be asking. It's only Aidan. All the signs so far have suggested he isn't about to turn into some angry, snarling monster as soon as Dean asks for his help.

Indeed, he smiles serenely back, looking only a little surprised.

“I think that's the most you've said since you got here,” he says. “But I _think_ there was a question in there. Course I'd be more than happy to show you round, mate! We could do it tomorrow, if you like. A friend of mine, Don, he takes the weekend lunchtime shifts, I'll be free till seven at the earliest. We could set off after lunch. I'm making the most amazing colcannon tomorrow – I'm allowed to say that 'cause it's not my recipe – and Joe, the bloke from the fishmongers, just told me before he left they've got a massive haul of gorgeous salmon in for the weekend. I'm really excited!” Aidan pauses briefly. “God, that makes me sound incredibly _sad_.”

And Dean, who thinks the exact opposite, tries his best to be consoling in a way that doesn't make it clear he finds passion – even passion in potatoes and kale, and Joe's gorgeous fresh fish haul – the most wonderful thing.

So they arrange to meet after lunch and Aidan gives Dean a combination of  _it's fine, I can load the glasses, you go up to bed, you must be exhausted_ , and in the morning Dean wakes after an excellent night's sleep smiling.

He kneels up on the bed and peers out the window. He can barely see the land for rain. He goes down gloomily to breakfast, and Aidan smiles at him and slides the steaming toast rack towards him. They reschedule for Sunday instead.

*

“... and that's the old church, though of course no one worships there anymore. They say before it fell like this you could see the tower all the way 'cross the sea. Pilgrims were tricked into thinking it was something special. Wasn't, of course, it was just another crumbling piece of brickwork packed with superstitious Catholics. So that's what our population's mostly made up of: descendants of superstitious Catholics and very confused pilgrims.”

Dean somehow gets the impression Aidan isn't very religious.

“How'd it get ruined like this?” he asks, toeing at a chunk of dead brick lying in the grass.

“Well, three hundred years ago a religious war broke out between Iarthar and Protestant Rathlin. They came over here with torches and a message of convert or die, and all the island fled to the church with their rosaries for refuge. The northerners held fast to their agenda and mercilessly burnt them out like rats.”

“God, really?”

“No,” says Aidan, and then he laughs. “Nah, I dunno, I think the altar caught fire during Mass in the 60s or something.”

Dean stops dead in his tracks. Then he throws his head back and laughs, and it's made all the funnier by the look of genuine surprise on Aidan's face. They're standing on a hill at the foot of the eerie church remains in coats and scarves. Rover's somewhere sniffing around the rocks.

They've passed up from Maidin Mhaith towards the main village, which is quaint and grey and very, very old, on through the fields and the shrivelled blackberry trees, and they've talked all the while. Or rather, Aidan's talked. Dean doesn't mind. He finds himself liking Aidan even more in the bright light of day, even ploughing through black butter mud in their boots.

Aidan has a lot of stories, to say he comes from a place so small. They find a bench beyond the church and he wipes the drying puddles of rain down with the hem of his coat and they sit and drink sweet tea from the aluminium flasks he brought. It's hot on Dean's lips, warming his throat and belly beautifully.

“So what do you think so far?” Aidan asks. “Dreary, right?”

“Beautiful, if a little rainy. I loved the village. The school and the bakery and the grocer's and everything. Really quaint.”

He isn't lying; some parts almost verge on kitsch. But the lands are beautiful, even the twisted blackberry trees and crusting rocks. Nothing much seems to flourish but it doesn't, by default, fill Dean with a sense of hopelessness. Rather, he finds it kind of amazing that the island just carries on as it does, as though it's totally unaware of its lack of growth. Either that or it recognises it and chooses to keep on going anyway. There's an inspirational message in there somewhere.

“Don't let the locals hear you saying that,” Aidan warns, “they'll think you're taking the piss.”

“But I'm not!”

Aidan just laughs, like he thinks Dean's joking. “What's it like where you live anyway? I read in a book once that New Zealand has tribes.”

Dean looks at him then, surprised to see Aidan looking plainly back. His face, sharp and dark as it is, looks at once both hard and innocent, the olive skin broken only by the red tinge of cold on his nose and cheekbones. All he's said is 'I read in a book once', but it seems somehow momentous; Dean is struck by the thought that he hasn't heard anyone say 'I read in a book once' for years.

“Well yeah,” Dean says slowly, “yeah, but they're not just walking around on the streets in their tribal get-up and stuff. There's a great culture surrounding it all but to be honest, Aidan, I don't know much about it. You'd have to ask a better historian. All I know is the rugby teams perform a haka before their matches.”

“A what?”

“A haka, it's like – it's just this dance thing.”

“You dance before your rugby matches?”

“Well _I_ don't, I don't even play rugby. It's just a nod to the, you know, to the culture. Like... Riverdance.” 

Aidan's face lights up in understanding. “God, I can't imagine great big rugby players doing step dancing before a match.”

“It doesn't _look_ like step dancing, it's...” Dean trails off because for one thing he still isn't really sure how to explain it properly and for another he's begun laughing again.

Fortunately, Aidan doesn't seem to mind much, though when he reaches up to scratch at his curls he looks a little bashful.

“Sorry,” he says. “I'm not exactly well-travelled.”

“No no no, it was just, y'know, step dancing rugby players.” Dean forces another snigger down and turns to look at Aidan properly. “Alright, where's the furthest you've gone, then?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, on holiday or whatever.”

Aidan pauses for a rather long moment. “Well... sometimes I get the ferry to Baltimore for business. And I had an aunt, only she's dead now, and when I was a kid she used to take me on a boat to Heir Island for the day when I was driving my parents spare.” Aidan smiles. “There are wildflowers everywhere. The sun always seemed to shine more there, even though it's only round the way. It's a tiny, tiny place. Strange the sun should find it so often. Is Auckland big?”

“Is Auckland big? It's pretty big, yeah. Population-wise, at least.”

“Why, how many people live there?”

Dean squints against the grey sky and shrugs. “I dunno, 1.3, 1.4 million?”

Aidan stares at him, lips a little parted like he wants to say something but doesn't quite know what.

“1.4 million?” he says finally, and it comes out in one breath that turns the air in front of him white with cold.

“Something like that. Goes up all the time.”

“Thirty people live on Heir Island.”

Dean tries to imagine living there. He can't.

“1.4 million,” Aidan says again. By this time he's turned away and is staring down at those church ruins, dark eyes glassy. “How'd they all fit?”

“Skyscrapers, like any big city. Can't build outwards anymore, so you've gotta build up.”

As though it's a command, Aidan's eyes flit upwards, and the uniformly white sky bears back down on them. He's quiet, looking thoughtful for a moment, like he's trying to imagine it. He licks his lips.

“Five hundred people live on this island,” he says, “and sometimes I still forget names.”

“Well, I've lived in my apartment for seven years and I don't even know all the names of the people on my corridor. They don't talk. Not to me anyway, and God knows I've tried. You know, they stare and they scowl at you when they collect the milk and the paper in the morning, but they don't _talk_.”

“But I thought you came here for quiet.”

Dean smiles. “This is a different kind of quiet. Cities tend to have a very loud kind of quiet.”

“Still, I'd love to see it. I'd love to see any big city. We nearly went to Dublin when I was a teenager, but my dad backed out at the last minute and he never said why. I want to go to London, but I don't think he'd ever forgive me. D'you get to travel much? Like you're doing now?”

“Me? I guess so. Never been to London or Dublin, but I saw a bit of Europe when I was a student. My friends and I did the whole backpacking hostel thing. Sometimes I don't think it was worth it, for the amount of trouble we got ourselves into.”

“Yeah?” Aidan grins. “Like what?”

“Oh God, nothing too glamorous, trust me. And anyway, you're not getting anything out of me till you've shared your farm tale. Don't think I've forgotten.”

Aidan's hesitation is not long-lasting. It seems, without the presence of James, he's more inclined to let himself be open. At least, more open than usual, since Dean has already gathered that Aidan doesn't leave many stories untold once he's got started.

“My dad went away to a market across the harbour and left me in charge of the farm for a day as 'training'. I was only sixteen, I didn't know what on earth I was doing. We had cows back then, not many, a dozen or so. Anyway, they fuckin' hated me, these cows, and I don't know if you know but they can be nasty buggers. Normally they leave you alone and just growl a bit, but four'd just had calves so when I went in to feed them in the morning they got a bit... spooked. I thought they might, so I left the gate open in case I needed to bolt.”

“Yeah, God only knows where this is heading.”

“I must have got too close, 'cause suddenly they were on me like... well, like cows protecting their calves. I got out the way, but the gate was open so they got a bit, erm, lost. It doesn't sound that bad, I know, but _you_ try sloping down to the village and trying to explain to the greengrocer why a mental cow's eating all his produce. And we didn't have Rover then so I had to shepherd all twelve of the bloody things back like a big walk of shame. It was so humiliating. Needless to say, we just ate them after that. And my dad taught me how to pull a pint about a week later.”

“And you've never done anything else?”

“I don't think I _could_ do anything else. I can't paint like you, and I was pretty hopeless at school. Sometimes people leave and get nice jobs on the mainland, but everyone else just stays and gets themselves a shop and a kid. I don't mind though, I like it.”

“I think I like it too.”

Dean looks at the sky emptied of colour, down at the white-green meadow stones and broken pieces of church and wall, the daisies bursting for air through thick, shiny grass and weeds, and finds in it all a plain, patent peacefulness he isn't used to.

“Yeah, I like it a lot.”

Aidan grins at him, face bright and deep-lined when he smiles.

“Good!” he chirps. “Because there's a lot more you haven't seen yet. Here, have more tea first. Nice, isn't it?”

They drink it and the cold air sweetens a little as the wind begins to drop. There's no sun to strike down hot, but Dean feels a warm enough glow to drink by.


	3. Chapter 3

A few days later Dean is awake earlier than usual, propped up in bed with his sketchbook across his knees, pencil in hand. He poises the pencil thoughtfully, listening to the soft pitter-patter of rain outside. It's another wet day, but nothing like Friday's ragged storm for which he's grateful; he thinks he might take another walk. Maybe ask Aidan along again.

He draws for a while, circles and scribbles and sleepy nonsense, and soon finds himself bothered by that occasional strange incapacity he sometimes hits, where he's either not inspired at all or inspired far too much, overwhelmed by it. He thinks it might be the latter this time. There are all sorts of things he _wants_ to create, but somehow he can't make them happen yet.

An hour later when he goes down to breakfast, Aidan is making potato cakes and singing along to the radio. It's some crackly independent station crooning out a folk song Dean is fairly sure has never been in the Top 40, but which Aidan is clearly familiar with if his soft, cheerful humming is anything to go by.

He's eating a triangle of dry toast as he works, and when he sets Dean's plate down he explains why.

“'Fraid I've gotta run. Told a mate of mine I'd change the ignition coil in his car, he's going away tomorrow.”

Aidan Turner: chef, barman and mechanical engineer. His talents know no boundaries, it seems. Dean nods, allowing himself to feel vaguely disappointed by the news. The past few days have been so good, it's been easy to forget that the people who live on this island aren't on a holiday too, and that Aidan was taking time out of his busy day on Sunday to show Dean round.

Still, it's not as though Dean doesn't have a specific reason for being here either.

“D'you know if there's an art shop around here?” he asks as Aidan shrugs himself into his coat by the door.

“An art shop? Finn Molony's got a DIY store up towards the bay, I daresay he sells paint and stuff. But it's not exactly, er...” Aidan tugs a scarf around his neck, smiling. “Refined. I could show you the way when I'm back, if you like.”

It's tempting, of course. But for all Aidan's boundless cheerfulness, Dean suddenly feels like he's overstepping the boundaries a little, even for 'this sort' of guest house. He smiles around a sip of tea and shakes his head.

“I'll find it. I need to get my bearings somehow.”

He _says_ that, but once Dean's finished his breakfast and he's wrapped up in his jacket and scarf and trailing through the mud alone, it's easy to get lost. He's bypassed the car in favour of a good, brisk walk. Big mistake. The rain is fine, and yet by the time he finally stumbles into the centre of the village he feels _soaked_. Stiff, too, like he's been dipped in varnish.

It's a relief to find the ramshackle DIY store at the end of the lane. It's wooden-clad and pretty soaking too, and upon closer inspection Dean sees it's actually subsiding. If the top of the top scientists are to be believed, what with land slowly being swallowed by water in tiny gulps every year, it looks like pretty soon Molony's won't exist at all.

For the record, 'Molony's' is sprawled on the front in incredibly ancient and peeling white paint. Tentatively, Dean steps through the door.

It's empty, dark and still like an abandoned workshop, but the atmosphere is positively stuffed with a warm, comforting smell Dean already knows well; sawdust and paint thinner, his first piece of home.

Stepping further into the shop, he does begin to see signs of life after all. A big mug of what looks like either coffee or very black tea is steaming on the counter top, and at the far end, through another little door, he can just about see the glow of a kerosene lamp. Mr Molony must be working in the back, and with this in mind Dean takes the opportunity to nose around the shop in peace.

There is no order, first of all. That should be stressed. The shop is divided by three old work benches, and on top of them all sorts of bits and tools are sprawled; hammers and hacksaws and lots of picture hooks and lots of screws and lots of junk Dean is sure doesn't exist anywhere else in the Western world. It looks like his dad's tip of a garage back home, and the lack of lighting isn't making Dean feel much friendlier about the place either.

He's on the verge of leaving altogether. Before he does, though, he simply cannot resist reaching out to prod one particularly large, unwieldy pitchfork of a thing, lying haphazardly across the middle bench.

And the tools fall like dominoes. His prod causes in the fork a strange kind of chain reaction and, as it ominously turns and bumps into the dusty Phillips screwdriver beside it, a series of bolts begin to roll and start dropping to the floor like hail, bouncing high as they do.

Dean curses and makes a quick lunge to save them, and in his haste sends a bicycle pedal skidding across the bench where it knocks straight into a heap of three wrenches, knocking them to the floor like bowling pins.

He ducks under the table, getting on hands and knees and desperately scooping as many wild bolts into his hands as he can until he hears –

“ _Dhia_... what on earth's going on in here?”

– and in his haste to stand up straight, Dean smacks the back of his head hard against the wooden beams of the work bench.

He's not sure if it's the strangled yelp of a noise his throat makes or the thud of his body against the floor which rattles the tools all around him. Either way, it's pitiful. So here he is, twelve thousand miles from home and lying on his back in a dusty Irish DIY shop, surrounded by a plethora of grisly instruments, seeing stars in daylight, the most unholy pounding in his head. It's not a situation he's ever imagined himself getting into, to be honest.

And to wrap it up, there's now a man standing over him, short and round and frowning (though that could just be the natural state of his brows). He's an old guy, is Mr Molony, hair wild and grey and wiry, and when he holds out a hand to help Dean up his fingers are rough as sandpaper.

“I'm so sorry, if you just give me a second I can clear all this up –”

“Ah, forget it,” says Molony, waving a careless hand at the mess. “That floor's been a tip for forty years, I'm not about to start cleaning it up now.”

Aware of the Health and Safety laws in his own country, Dean surreptitiously bends to pick up a wrench when the guy isn't looking. The dull ache is already beginning to throb horribly in the back of his head. Mr Molony returns slowly to the counter, takes hold of his tea mug and drains it, fixing Dean with a fairly uninterested gaze all the while.

“You're the tourist?”

Dean looks up from dusting off his jeans. “I'm sorry?”

“You're the tourist, aren't yeh? Stayin' up at the farm with the Turners?”

“Just the one Turner actually!”

It's meant to be a joke, but Mr Molony doesn't even crack a smile. Perhaps he physically can't; his skin looks pretty papery. Might well rip if he shows any emotion.

“How'd you know I was a tourist then?” asks Dean.

“Well now, lad, let's see.” Mr Molony sets his mug down again, appraising him with steely eyes. “I come into my shop to find you flat on your arse surrounded by my tools, you've no proper coat, just some wee leather thing like _that's_ gonna keep yeh from cold round these parts, and your hands when I helped yeh up were about as soft as a baby's arse.”

Dean glances forlornly down at his hands, wishing he hadn't bothered asking.

“Anyway, what can I do you for?” Molony goes on.

“I know this is probably a long shot,” says Dean. “I was just wondering if you sold any canvases.”

“And why's that a long shot? We primitive islanders have got to pass the time too, you know. Painting or embroidery? Splined or stapled?”

“Uh, painting,” Dean says quickly, “and splined, please.”

“Size?”

Dean bites his tongue against asking what sizes they come in, lest he offend the guy a second time.

“Twelve by twelve? Inches, I mean.”

“Twelve by twelve inches yeh mean,” Mr Molony huffs, leaning down behind the counter to paw at a whole array of dusty blank canvases Dean hadn't even noticed when he walked in. “How many d'you want?”

“Well, how much are they?”

“Since you're our guest I'd let you have them for ten bob each.”

Dean isn't sure if he's brought the price down or upped it.

“Great! I'll take a couple then, thanks.” Well, it's not like he has a choice either way.

It's as Mr Molony's wrapping them up for him, not in the bubble wrap Dean's used to it but in thick brown paper, that the door squeaks open and closed again, and Dean hears a splatter of rain and a familiar voice mutter, “Dia, tá sé fliuch! Finn?”

“Aidan! Dia duit ar maidin!”

Aidan comes forward, wet and with a smile broad as daylight, before Dean can even get out a hello of his own.

“Dean!” he chirps, like he's truly surprised. “You found the place then?”

For one wonderful moment Dean thinks Aidan has come looking for him. Then he sees the ratchet and swivel adapter and socket in Aidan's gloved hands, and thinks again.

“Worked a treat, Finn, thanks,” Aidan says, sliding them on to the counter.

“Extension size okay?”

“Perfect!”

“So I s'pose Gallagher'll be leaving us after all, now you've gone and fixed his car.”

“He'll come back,” Aidan says cheerfully, and then he turns to Dean and misses the disbelieving look Molony shoots him. “Did you get everything you were looking for, then?”

Dean blinks at him, suddenly realising he's being addressed. “Yes, yeah, I just needed some canvases. My sketchbook's making me scribble.”

As they speak Mr Molony finishes wrapping the boards up, and when the money's been handed over he sees them off with a cheery Irish farewell to Aidan and little more than a nod to Dean.

“Nice, is Finn, isn't he?” says Aidan once they're outside. The rain's picked up again, and Dean suddenly understands why Molony turned his nose up at his wee leather jacket after all.

“Can I ask you something?” says Dean. “And I hope you won't get offended.”

“It's hard to offend me, Dean, most things go over my head.”

The surprising bout of self-deprecation makes Dean pause, and a short moment passes before he remembers to voice his question.

“Do the locals not... like visitors or something?”

Aidan looks at him. “Why do you say that?”

“I dunno. They just seem a bit wary around me.”

Actually, 'wary' isn't really the word. 'Amused' might be more appropriate.

“Did Finn say something to upset you?”

“No, no, of course not.”

“'Cos he runs his mouth like a bugger but he doesn't really mean it.”

“He didn't say anything bad,” says Dean and, really, it isn't a lie. “I just feel like some people think I'm tramping all over your turf or something. I don't know, I'm being stupid.”

As they walk along in the rain, Dean chances a glance at Aidan and finds him looking thoughtful. Maybe even a little hurt, which makes Dean immediately feel terrible. He opens his mouth to quickly apologise, but Aidan manages to speak first.

“Dean, the thing is...” he says carefully, “some people here like to think they're a bit... special. They like the way things are done on the island, and they think if anyone from another place comes and decides they like it here, they might stay and bring their 'modern ways' with them.”

Dean thinks of Mr Molony's shady, subsiding DIY shop.

“Is that really such a bad thing?” he asks.

Aidan shrugs but doesn't really answer, and Dean's left wondering what exactly his stance on the matter is. He knows what his own is; change, tolerance, descriptivism, all of them mean progress. Stubborn refusal to change, even and especially for the better, has been the downfall of _so many people_. It doesn't take just a stuffy pessimist to realise that.

But Dean lets it drop because this isn't his home and he doesn't want to stay forever and he doesn’t plan on inflicting his 'modern ways' on anyone. All he came here for was a bloody break.

“You heading back now?” Aidan asks, once the farm some way up ahead comes into sight.

“I'd planned on it. You?”

“Yeah, I was gonna get started on lunch. I'll go back with you, if you don't mind stopping by my house so I can pick Rover up for this afternoon.”

And since Dean has no other errands to run, and only seems to feel calm on this island with Aidan around, and has a sudden intense, fairly nosy desire to see where exactly Aidan lives, he eagerly agrees, and they make a quick detour out of the village centre down one mud-slicked cobbled lane.

At first Dean finds it hard to believe that an island which has so much land in relation to so small a population even bothers with terraced houses, but nonetheless Aidan's house is _gorgeous_. It's grey-bricked, sash-windowed and low-ceilinged like all the other buildings, but round the red door grows a honeysuckle arch, and inside there's a huge great open fire and lots of well-loved mismatched furniture.

It smells like Aidan too, that warm, minty scent permeating the air, mixed with smoke from the hearth. But its one flaw is that, in terms of any adornments, the place is surprisingly sparse, the walls blank and cream, all surfaces free of any photographs. The strangest area is above the mantel piece; it's a space Dean has always thought should house at least one picture in every single home, but Aidan has nothing.

“Sorry it's a bit bare,” he says, as though reading Dean's mind. “Afraid I'm not much cop at decorating. Take a seat, I won't be two minutes.”

“No, no, take all the time you need. I haven't got anywhere to be if you haven't.”

“Oh, well.” And then Aidan stops where he is, hovering in the doorway to the kitchen. “In that case, do you want something to drink? In fact, we could just eat here. James has gone to the mid-week market so it's just you and me for lunch anyway, and it'd save going back in the rain for a while.”

They end up eating in the kitchen, which is big and warm but so old there isn't even a microwave or a proper electric cooker, just a gas stove and another open fire. Aidan makes them tea and heats up healthy portions of cottage pie and they eat at the table with Rover in his basket by the door.

“Where does your dog actually live?” Dean asks, admiring the way the fur on Rover's neck stands out startlingly white against the black.

“The farmhouse with my parents, but he's staying with me while they're away. He's my dog anyway. Our old sheepdog, Blue, was his mum, and when the puppies were born I got to keep this one. But Blue died not long ago so Rove took over the sheep.”

“So, what, he just had to go live with your parents instead?”

Aidan shakes his head. “We already lived with them, up until about three years ago. I just left Rover behind when I went. I was _heartbroken_ , but I couldn't tell my dad since I was twenty-one at the time. I mean, I see Rover every day at the farm anyway, but he's still my...” Aidan cuts himself off by shoving a particularly large forkful of food into his mouth, like his mind's trying to get a sentence out that his body doesn't want him to. In the end, perhaps due to Dean's inquisitive look, he says it anyway: “He's still my best friend.”

“Aw, Aidan!”

“Don't laugh! You can't blame me, everyone else round here's either a baby or ancient.”

“There must be people your age. What about the guys you went to school with?”

“A lot of my friends left,” says Aidan, and Dean's ready to feel sad on his behalf but to be honest, Aidan doesn't even sound too sad about it himself. “What about you? I bet you've got loads of friends.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Well you're, you know, _nice_. Plus you've your 1.4 million at your fingertips. Iarthar's a bit disappointing in that respect – you've five hundred to choose from, and if you don't like any of them you're fucked.”

Dean laughs. “Rest assured I haven't met everyone in my city. But yeah, I mean... I have friends. No one too special. People come and go.” At this Aidan begins to look sympathetic, so Dean quickly adds, “Which is fine. Life's busy and everyone's gotta do their own thing.”

Which is a vague, frustrating thing to say, but he isn't sure how else he can get across what he means without being upfront about it and simply saying, “I've never really cared about anyone enough to stop them leaving.”

After lunch they take Rover back up to the farm so he can help Aidan's uncle shepherd a dozen sheep and their lambs down from a grassy hill back to the stables. Dean and Aidan watch from the fence, sitting close enough that their wet-denim legs are pressed together, side by side, and since neither of them seem bothered about moving, in spite of miles of spare fencing being available to them, Dean doesn't point it out. He even acknowledges, albeit secretly, that he actually rather likes the feeling of warmth pressed there. Of Aidan's warmth pressed there.

But they're pulled apart when Aidan hops back down on to the grass and goes to help wrap tiny blue coats round shivering lambs.

“They die easily in weather like this,” Aidan explains, giving one coated lamb a gentle scratch behind the ears. “This just helps them stay a bit dryer up on the hills.”

Dean thinks that it might just be, without exception, the most sickeningly precious scene he's ever witnessed. It's topped when Aidan scoops a speckled lamb into his arms and, over its head of baby-soft wool, grins at Dean clear and bright through the rain.

*

Dean works on his painting through the night. It's always been like this for him; if inspiration strikes there's no making sleepy bedside notes and waiting till morning. He turns on all the lights in the room and works at the desk, curtains drawn against the dark and the rain, and by the time he crawls into bed there's half a watercolour depicting the memory-plucked view of green Irish hills from Dean's room. He finishes the details by daylight.

Two days later he finds Aidan wiping down the bar following a lunchtime shift. The tavern is empty now, so Aidan's got time on his hands to allow Dean to make an utter fool of himself.

“Aidan?” he says, fidgeting with the canvas in his hands, and Aidan looks up so quickly his curls flop wildly into his eyes. “I bought those canvases the other day just for painting, but they're a bit too big to take home and I was going to give you something for the bar but... you said about the walls in your house and...”

For God's sake, he's a painter. There's a reason he isn't good with words. Stupidly, he holds the canvas out to Aidan.

Aidan looks gently surprised for a moment. Then he drops the cloth he's holding and edges his way round the bar so they're standing next to each other. With careful hands, as though the canvas is edged with gold, he takes it from Dean.

“Is this for me?”

“If you want it,” Dean mumbles, fingers curling at his sides to stop himself from grabbing it back.

“Dean, it's so _good_.”

It's very green and very pale, and the sky is dotted with a blue which in truth is never really there. The painting's simple and neat and pretty at best, but Dean flushes with pride all the same.

“Thank you!” Aidan gushes. “Thank you _so_ much.”

“I thought maybe... you know, if you wanted, it could go above your fireplace. Not that there's anything wrong with your fireplace, it's a great fireplace, and maybe the canvas is a little too small for that spot anyway, like a pea on a drum. I should have done you another, I'm sorry. I can do you another –”

Aidan leans in close and presses a chaste kiss to Dean's cheek, and Dean shuts up altogether. The place where Aidan's lips have been tingles like pins and needles. When Dean glances up at him he can feel himself smiling. It disappears when he sees the shifty look in Aidan's dark eyes.

“Sorry,” Aidan blurts out, and he takes a step back and bumps into the golden rail of the bar behind him.

“No no no, it's fine,” says Dean, because it _is_ , it definitely is. When he reaches out to touch Aidan's arm, trying quietly to reiterate his point, Aidan flinches. But he doesn't back away. And when it's clear Dean isn't going to yell, Aidan smiles again.

That's it, Dean thinks, that's done it. Those smiles bring summer running. Without quite knowing how it's happened, he finds he's suddenly falling for Aidan right here in this empty basement bar. Or maybe this is the crash landing, and he's been falling since that day with the sheep and the ditch and Rover's tail hitting him twice in the face.

Either way it feels all good. Suddenly Iarthar is sensational.

*

Friday comes a second time and, beneath the glowing eyes of two dozen paraffin lamps, Dean knocks back four pints of Guinness with Aidan and James and Aidan's uncle and his odd mate Ronan, and when he's feeling woozy and silly and warm, when he's deeply and only nonsensically questioning the meanings of life, of travel and of Aidan's lips on his cheek all at once, he accepts Aidan's offer of a dance and soon finds himself tossed in the midst of ten thousand islanders, all flushed and pressed against one another, pressed so close he has to let his chest touch Aidan's, and no one says a word because they're all kind of _pissed_.

But somewhere, up in his brain between memories of misplaced mouths and the slowing thickness of stout, Dean recalls a problem.

“I don't know the steps,” he suddenly laughs, clasping Aidan's arm to steady himself, more against the tide of oncoming dancers than the drink.

Aidan grins down at him. “Neither do I,” he says, whispers it, really, leaning down close enough for Dean to hear, his breath warm and smelling strangely sweet in spite of the alcohol.

For Dean's part, he worries about his own burnt liquorice-y Guinness breath, if Aidan will mind it this close up. But if he does there's nothing Dean can do about it. He doesn't know where to go from here.

Aidan helps him. He takes his arms – not his hands, just his arms – and steers him through one complicated, fairly fast, fairly generic fiddle-and-guitar affair, and it's fun in a way dancing in clubs never is, because here there are no rules, and to Aidan and Dean's right a man and a woman are ballroom dancing, and to their left a little boy and his dad are hopping their way through the whole song, faces flushed with mirth, and no rules means no one laughs at anyone, and no rules means no one bats an eyelid when Aidan briefly – only briefly – takes Dean's hands and neatly spins him, and together they pass it off as a joke.

“So you like the Friday céilí, eh, Deano?” Aidan asks later when everyone has gone home. He's just a tiny bit drunk, it seems, eyes glassy and red tinges sitting high on his cheekbones.

“That's what you call it, then?”

Dean leans across the bar, arms crossed, watching Aidan twist taps firmly off and polish the last of the drying glasses with automatic ease.

“Aye, yeah, the céilí, the craic, always the best craic at Maidin Mhaith. My favourite night of the week.”

“Everyone wanted to dance with you,” Dean grins.

“Everyone _always_ wants to dance with me,” says Aidan, and he winks, only it's not as sharp as usual. “No, really, they think it'll get them free drinks.

“Still, you could have had your pick of the lot. Thanks for picking me, and for not laughing too much when I made an idiot out of myself. _If_ I made an idiot out of myself. It's all sort of a blur to me now.”

“You didn't. I might be too kind a man to tell someone when they're showing themselves up, but you can be sure James would have pointed it out.”

“Ah, then I'll sleep easy tonight.”

They smile at each other. Then, as if struck by a wonderful idea, Dean leans further across the bar and takes Aidan's face in his hands and kisses him. Aidan's hands go neatly around the back of Dean's head and hold him in place. Then he pulls back and smiles, shakes his head, presses his face into Dean's shoulder and makes a soft, pleased noise in the back of his throat.

“You wanna talk about it?” says Dean, fingers finally resting on those curls.

Aidan shakes his head a second time, and Dean finds himself more content than confused anyway. There's something inevitable about this, he thinks. Something neat and obvious, and the only thing that's remotely scary about it is how simple it all seems.

He slides into bed that night with two extra blankets and a refusal to wonder when it was that his life turned to kissing bashful boys in bars and wrapping lambs in coats. At home the window above his bed lets the slow-moving lights of Auckland lull him to sleep. It's one of few comforts in a city so crashing with it all, with everything.

Tonight he doesn't need it. He hears footsteps on the basement stairs, the flicking of a lightswitch, the opening of a door down the hall as James goes to bed, and the closing of the door downstairs. Dean turns on to his side and thinks about Aidan walking home in the pitch black, the rain, and hopes he stays at least a little dry beneath his coat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tá sé fliuch = it's wet  
> Dia duit ar maidin = good morning  
> Céilí = dance event where everyone is invited to join in  
> Craic = Irish term for music, good times, good people & good conversation
> 
> I'm lucky enough to have had Loobeeinthesky do some absolutely stunning artwork for this chapter which you can find [here](http://loobeeinthesky.tumblr.com/post/54343983119/based-on-the-rpf-fic-wintering-out).


	4. Chapter 4

And so, in spite of it being nowhere near close to Dean's initial plan for this getaway, he slips into a routine not entirely unlike the one he knew in Auckland. Only detracted from his routine on Iarthar is the blinding hum of city life, and in its place one major addition: Aidan.

Every day Dean gets up and has a shower, gets dressed, goes downstairs where Aidan is grilling or stirring or boiling up something good. They eat together, Aidan runs errands, Dean paints, they eat together, Aidan runs errands, Dean paints, they eat together, Aidan works, Dean paints, Aidan watches, sometimes chats, sometimes slips into soft-snored sleep right there in the armchair. And without fail, they share a kiss each evening, hidden by the ages-old walls of Dean's room, and sometimes it's long and indulgent, and sometimes it's small and brief like a hasty-made promise.

Promises which Dean lovingly weaves into every piece of work, since now he's been struck by an inspiration quite aside from the smoky hulk of Irish hills.

With a jolt Dean is met with the strange, slightly unnerving position of being close to someone and knowing everything between them is transient. He's rarely hit by feelings such as these, but when he does they come down on him like a hammer, ruining him. A third Friday arrives, and he curses his inability to judge the passing of time. Aidan is slipping fast from his fingers already, and Dean can't find the words to explain why it makes him feel the way it does, sick and full with something like grief.

Because he likes Aidan a lot, finds fondness for him in the work-rough gaps between fingers, the warm curve of an untamed mouth. But Aidan talks enough for the both of them, and since he doesn't seem fond of addressing the issue either, Dean deals with it like he would a spilt cup of tea; putting a pillow over the mark left behind, pretending it doesn't exist.

An evening not warm but significantly less chilly than the ones they've been enduring lately comes sleepily around the corner. Dean finds himself out in a hay-strewn stable, half a dozen sheep lying about, looking at him with little interest, as Aidan pulls lamb after lamb into his lap, holding their ears gently between his fingers, a concentrated frown on his face.

“See,” he says, one well-wrapped lamb on his legs, “feel.”

A little hesitantly, Dean reaches out to replace Aidan's fingers around the small lamb's ear. It's cold and slightly wet and sort of –

“It feels crunchy,” he says in surprise.

Aidan nods solemnly. “Onset of frostbite.”

“Is he in pain?”

“Maybe.” Aidan's fingers give the lamb's head a gentle pat. “Dad always says not to bother. He'd have a fit if he knew we were letting them into the barn. He keeps them running out on the hills at minus twenty, all through the night. Says they're made to thrive in this sort of weather. Which they _are_ , but still... I feel terrible for them.”

He sounds like he truly does, like he can find space inside himself for genuine concern over the hopeless soggy-eared lamb in his arms. Dean bites back his automatic response – _it's only a little sheep_ – and knows it's easy to care about something like this on an island of five hundred.

“What can you do for them?” he asks.

“Not much more than we already have. Keep them fleeced up and with their mothers, and if any of them start to get cold – dangerously cold – give 'em a bath. It's the weather, you know, it's just not getting any better. They reckon there's another storm on its way – that's all we need.”

Aidan shakes his head, gives the lamb a last pat and lets it slip off his lap. It pads back over to its mother, curling up snug like a dog. Aidan stands, dusting hay from his jeans, and holds a hand out to Dean.

“Sorry,” he laughs, “you must think I've got my priorities all wrong.”

“No, I don't. Though I _am_ wondering why your uncle isn't out here worrying too.”

“My uncle doesn't care about the farm, he's doing my dad a favour. Man's only concern is when the pub's gonna open. Speaking of, we should head back and get warm in time.”

Inside they drink heavy, milky tea – Dean isn't entirely sure the milk isn't in fact cream – and sit diagonal from each other at the dining room table, fire spitting, Rover begging for bits of potato bread. Aidan eats and drinks with a kind of world-weary tiredness Dean's never seen before, and he wonders if it's too much to assume this isn't entirely down to the frostbitten lambs.

“They'll be okay,” he says anyway, for lack of anything else.

Aidan looks up. “Hm?”

“The lambs.”

“Oh, right. Yeah.” Aidan nods, then seems to take note of his uncharacteristic glumness, the break in his mask of perpetual cheerfulness, and draws a smile on to his face. “Yeah, course they will! Proper little troopers. D'you want more tea?”

“I'm fine, thanks.”

“Anything to eat? There's loads left.”

“Still full from dinner!”

No matter how much time they spend together, Aidan seems unable to break his habit of being overly helpful, something honed, no doubt, from twenty-odd years of growing up in a guest house.

“Right, well. I'd best get down to the bar.”

Aidan starts to stand and, on a whim, Dean reaches out to gently grab his arm.

“Can I...” He hesitates. “Can I come down tonight?”

Aidan blinks in surprise. “To the bar?”

“Yeah.”

“Course you can, Dean, you don't need to ask.”

“Well, I know I've been working every evening and you have your friends and all, and I never wanted to be a bother, I just...” He swallows hard, past the strange, thick knot in his throat. “I'm leaving soon so I wanted to spend some more time with you.”

Aidan's face softens into something gentler, more vulnerable, and he takes Dean's hand and entwines their fingers and in one swift pull brings Dean to his feet.

“When you goin' again?” Aidan asks quietly.

Dean swallows a second time. “A week. A week today.”

“Can't have been a month already.”

“It hasn't. It's been three weeks.”

Aidan smiles, just. He slides one arm slightly awkwardly around Dean's shoulders, kisses his neck. The hand moves lower, to the warm place in the small of Dean's back, where it rests like a weight. They both lean in, kiss once carefully and a second time properly, with lips which seem well-practised by now. Aidan tastes of bread and the slight sourness of melted sugar and cream, yes, it was cream in the tea and not milk.

Dean feels the warm tip of a tongue press speculatively against his lips. Then someone clears their throat, and Dean pulls back to see James standing in the doorway, dripping with rain.

Dean opens his mouth, ready to talk, but Aidan doesn't look stricken or scared. Sheepish, at worst. Bashful.

“They're already lining up, Aidan,” says James, shrugging off his coat and hanging it on the rack in the hall. “Best hop down and let 'em in.”

“Right! Course!”

“Start on the half-empty cask from last night else it'll be no good by tomorrow. And bloody Darragh O'Dylan's in tonight, make sure you see to him properly or he'll start another commotion.”

Ever eager to please, Aidan casts Dean one more glance before scampering off. Dean stays rooted to the spot. He waits for a scolding, insides coiled tight like a snake. When he looks up, James fixes him with a tight smile.

“You coming for a drink tonight, lad?”

Dean blinks, hesitant. “I thought about it.”

“Yeah.” James nods, and moves to start clearing the tea things from the table. “When are you off?”

“A week.”

“Does Aidan know?”

“Yeah. Yeah, he knows.”

James nods a second time, the plates in a little pile in his hands now, one teacup balanced on top. He looks first at Rover, who's peering up hopefully, and then back at Dean. He licks his lips.

“We get a lot of storms around here,” he says eventually. “When I first arrived on the island Aidan was twelve, if you can imagine that. Right restless little lad, he was, always had grazed knees and mud on his nose. S'pose not much has changed.”

Dean smiles, the knot of tension built up between his shoulder blades beginning to ease some. He thinks that will be all, and that he can leave. But James carries on.

“Don't think I ever told you, did I? While I was staying here at the guest house, a great massive storm hit. Devil of a thing, devastating, absolutely devastating. There were trees once here, you know.”

He breaks off ominously, sets the last of the pots on a tray and carries them into the adjoining kitchen. Tentatively, Dean follows.

“Anyway, the old barn was ruined,” James continues. “Collapsed, fell in on itself, and Aidan's father rushed out right into the middle of the storm to check on his animals. And Rover's mum Blue was a kid at the time, but _her_ dad Jack was a retired sheepdog. Scraggly old thing, blind in one eye, riddled with arthritis. Useless, of course. Loyal, but useless. Used to sleep at the end of Aidan's bed.”

James dumps the pots unceremoniously into the Belfast sink and turns on the taps.

“But this particular night Jack ran out to help with the animals, and in the midst of all this utter chaos he got lost. Any other lad would accept it as fate, but Aidan... well, Aidan pulls his boots on and runs out after him, runs into this bloody great  _storm_. I helped look for him. Two hours before he came back, clothes soaked, face like a widower, Jack in his arms.” James glances over his shoulder at Dean. “Dead, of course.”

Dean barely suppresses a shiver.

“His father was _furious_. And his mother didn't stop shaking for two days. Said they'd put a lock on Aidan's door for what he put them through. Said the dogs were never to go in his room again. Even as they said it all, you could tell young Aidan wasn't listening. Was still choked up about that bloody useless old dog. And I've never seen his parents so angry, but they still let him bury the thing. I couldn't understand why, because where I was from you'd find enough dead men on the streets, never mind dogs.”

He turns and looks at Dean now, rolling his sleeves to the elbow in preparation of washing up. His movements are patient, measured, like he's leaving a gap for Dean to speak. Dean doesn't fill it because he doesn't know what to say, appreciates the insight but is frankly still waiting for the penny to drop.

“But that's just it, Dean,” says James, “we're all from different places. We expect different things.”

And then it does. It drops.

*

At thirty years old, Dean O'Gorman has a modern two-bedroom apartment in the heart of Auckland city, a king-sized bed and a stainless steel fridge freezer. There's a sliding door on to a sun-drenched balcony, and a treadmill in the lounge.

He has a double-first in Fine Art and Photography, a fair amount of acquaintances, one or two close friends, and a string of past relationships under his belt, all with fairly normal, fairly decent human beings.

He plays poker every Friday night with Jared and Emmett and Ben, all of whom he's known since university and none of whom would die for him, but they'd stick up for him in a pub brawl. His family aren't ashamed of him, his job pays adequately, and he's healthy.

He often wonders if he's getting old, and consoles himself with trips to trendy art galleries and stupid impulse buys.

It's not enough, any of it. He'll be eating his breakfast one morning and quite suddenly feel loneliness lunge upon his back, wrap round his neck and pull. A loneliness that is urgent and panic-stricken, jabbing at an unsatisfied carnal hunger which makes him want to lock himself in a bedroom with someone and not come out for three days.

Then there's the times when it's softer, more docile, and it creeps up on a wet Friday afternoon and rests its chin on his knees and deplores the loss of tea-warm kisses and socked feet in laps, now-and-then texts to say I was thinking of you, that's all.

That he might find those things here, both the carnal and the soft, is ridiculous. But three nights before he's set to leave, Aidan asks him round to his house for dinner, and it doesn't occur to Dean to say no.

“I'm afraid it's not much,” says Aidan, leading him into the kitchen. “Wanted sirloin but all I could get was ribeye.”

“It's fine,” Dean chuckles. “Steak's steak.”

Aidan looks mildly horrified by this, but doesn't say anything. Dean isn't sure what he means by “not much” either. Aidan loads Dean's plate with two kinds of potato, three kinds of vegetable, mushrooms, tomatoes, and a hunk of well-done steak. There's red wine and white wine (“I didn't know which you'd prefer”) and a small plate half of butter and half of margarine (“I didn't know which you ate”) and a bowl of onion garnish (“I didn't know if you liked onions or not. Loads of people don't”).

When Dean sits down at the table, Aidan even shoos Rover out into the living room and closes the door so he won't beg.

“Is the rain still bad out?” Aidan asks when he sits down.

“It's awful,” Dean admits.

“Did you come in your car?”

“Yeah, I didn't want to risk getting swept away.”

“I'm sorry. You should have stayed back at the house, you didn't have to come all this way.”

Dean's long since learnt that not only is Aidan's idea of population completely skewed, he also has little sense of distance. When considering the size of the island, he believes a two minute drive to the village centre to be a long way.

“No no no, it's fine, I wanted to,” Dean says, when Aidan still looks unsure. “Really, Aidan, I did. This looks amazing. Thank you.”

Aidan's mouth splits into a wide grin, and God, he _glows_. Dean averts his gaze quickly, stabs a fork into his food and begins to eat. They drink the white wine and then they drink the red, and afterwards they go into the living room and kiss on the couch until a rumble of thunder outside breaks them apart. Aidan sits up with a jolt, blinks at the pitch blackness through the window, the rivulets of water running rapid down the glass panes. He smiles, carding a hand through his hair.

“S'picking up out there.” He sounds almost apologetic, as though he's in charge of the heavens opening.

“It'll die down,” says Dean, rising on to one elbow and stealing himself another kiss.

Half an hour passes and it doesn't die down. It picks up, like Aidan said it would, and Rover starts whimpering over by the window, ears stood up straight in rigid triangles as he glances back and forth between Aidan and the front door.

Aidan shifts from underneath Dean, lowers himself to the carpet and shuffles across to where Rover is sitting.

“Hey, boy,” he murmurs, reaching very slowly to run tentative fingers through the thick fur around the dog's neck. He whispers something in Irish that Dean can't understand, although he cranes his neck to try and catch the movement of Aidan's lips. Rover seems to still for a moment, giving in to the gentle fingers. Then a clap of thunder breaks the night sky, and Rover yips and howls and darts out from Aidan's hand into the kitchen.

They can hear the honeysuckle outside, rattling against the door.

“My dog is not impressed,” says Aidan. He tries for a gentle laugh; it comes out nervous. “Maybe you should stay here tonight, Dean. I mean, there's a spare room, I wouldn't... it's just the weather's dangerous and the ditches flood and there aren't many street lamps so you'd have to –”

“Aidan, it's fine.”

“You'd have to be really careful.”

“It's fine, seriously. I'll stay, I appreciate the offer.”

“Really?”

“Course! Crack out the whiskey!”

The joke goes over Aidan's head. “I don't think there is any. I think I'm already a bit drunk from the wine,” and then he lies down right there on the floor.

Dean watches him for a while, gaze torn between Aidan's face and the strip of skin above his waistband where his shirt's ridden up a little. He's got a beautiful face though, the kind where you're aware of every single jut of bone beneath it. No detail goes unnoticed, not the cut of his cheekbone or the thick, dark lines of his eyebrows, the handsome slope of his nose.

Dean often feels undecided about his own face. His fairness makes him feel bland, hazy and soft round the edges, and his height does little to make him any more striking. Everything about Aidan demands attention, even if he isn't looking for it.

And yet it's his stark and blatant handsomeness which makes Dean feel good, too. That Aidan wants him in return is enough to make Dean muster up the courage to slip off the couch and join him on the floor, slide a hand across Aidan's stomach to find that strip of warm skin and fit his head snugly beneath his arm.

He can't see Aidan's face like this, but he thinks he hears the smile in his voice when Aidan murmurs, “Hello.”

From here Dean can take in the ramshackle room from a different angle, and though he'd noticed it on the way in he smiles to see Aidan's hung his picture above the fireplace. Dean's working on a second to accompany it, but it isn't finished. He doesn't think it will be before he leaves.

He reaches up and squeezes Aidan's hand.

“Hey, Aid?”

“Mm?”

“You're not sleeping, are you?”

“Nah.”

Another roar of thunder, a tiny flash of lightning splattering the window this time, and Dean presses a little closer. He'd say it's the wine making him more confident. It's not. It's two weeks of fervent kisses exchanged between the four old walls of Dean's bedroom. That makes it sound romantic, and it _is_ in the sense that it fills him up tight with excitement and mystery, in that he never quite knows what the weight of each of Aidan's kisses means.

But at the same time he feels silly and giddy and far too optimistic, the sort of person he's never been before; _Romantic_ as well as romantic.

He thinks it's something to do with the way Aidan sees the world; he makes all this seem comfortable, normal, when really they're on borrowed time.

Dean isn't sure how much longer they lie there, but when the rain grows so hard it sounds like it's about to burst through the thatched roof, and the wind begins whistling down the chimney, Aidan gets up and goes into the kitchen. When Dean follows him in there, he finds Aidan wrapping a blanket around Rover.

Then the electricity, which is unreliable on the island in the best of weather, goes out, and suddenly Dean can only see Aidan by the light of the still-burning fire. Aidan sighs and shrugs, a tired smile on his face, and heats up water and makes them tea. They drink it while they talk long into the night.

It's after midnight when Aidan lights a paraffin lamp in the spare bedroom – which is clean and comfortable but extraordinarily plain – draws the curtains against the raging storm, hands Dean a spare t-shirt and kisses him goodnight on the landing, long fingers pressed gently against Dean's jaw.

Neither of them say it, but Dean thinks he knows the reason behind this separation. To see Aidan's room, to share his bed and the slumbering warmth of his body if only for sleep, would give Dean access to a world which can never really be his.

So he strips to his boxers and pulls on the t-shirt (which smells of laundry detergent and not Aidan, but is comforting all the same) and lies in the cold bed and thinks, if nothing else, sleeping together would have at least meant extra warmth.

He's riddled with stone-cold sobriety now, staring up at the ceiling, feeling each minute slip sleepily from his fingers to the floor. He thinks of Aidan, curled up in bed in the next room. Or maybe he sprawls, on account of all those long limbs.

It's better to know, of course. It's always better to know. Here's Dean, thirty years old with two romantically barren years under his belt, lying in an unfamiliar bed with someone gloriously good next door, and it all just seems so stupid and _frustrating_ and jarring, too, like they're going against some natural inclination.

It's better to have and to lose than to never have at all. Better to see and know than be haunted by imaginings. He pulls back the duvet and slips out of bed and pads to Aidan's room, knocks once on the door and goes inside.

Aidan is a sprawler after all, one arm flung high above his head and the other hanging awkwardly off the mattress. But he's not asleep, and when Dean goes in the room Aidan sits up, the covers pooling at his waist.

“Dean?” he mumbles, eyes bright even in the dark. “What's wrong?”

“Can't sleep. I'm too cold.”

“Oh. Do you want me to get you a –”

“No, can I just... can I just get in with you?”

He doesn't mean for it to sound the way it does, like a scared child to their parent after a nightmare, or a dog curling up loyally at the end of a mattress. He wants to get in with Aidan, wants to wrap arms around his waist and legs around his hips and curl up tight against him hard enough to bruise, imprint one another's bodies with outlines of themselves.

Aidan peels the duvet back and Dean slides in next to him, and it's like sliding beneath fire-warmed blankets. Aidan allows him close, curling an arm around Dean's shoulders and pressing a kiss to his chin.

“You don't mind?” says Dean, and this time Aidan kisses him on the lips.

They lapse into silence after that, and Aidan quite easily slips into sleep. Dean examines his face all the while; it's an extraordinary one, he thinks, one which only seems to suit the land it comes from. He can't imagine Aidan's beauty translating nearly so well in his native New Zealand, or America, or somewhere over in Britain.

It's uniquely wild, rough and trimmed at the same time, sharp lines like the thin, stark branches of a rainforest. Dean finds himself forever amazed by it, how the eyebrows are thick and gloriously dark and yet refuse to meet in the middle, how one single solitary freckle dots his forehead and nowhere else. Aidan is beautiful, but seems almost bothered by the fact, so that Dean often finds the most concentrated of frowns gracing his features when Aidan is merely being pensive.

He is perpetually warm, and smells more like home than Dean has ever known. Some time later Aidan wakes, and they kiss and talk of nothing, quietly, as though there's someone else in the house they might disturb.

And at some point they both sleep again. When Dean wakes the rain is dripping audibly outside but it's stopped falling. He sees the dawn light settling through the bedroom window. Sobriety threatens to make a point, and Dean pushes it away by unwinding the heavy arm from around him and raising himself up to straddle Aidan's waist.

Aidan's eyes blink open. He smiles, dawn-soft and sleepy, and doesn't say a word when Dean leans to press their mouths together. He accepts it with an air of inevitability, if the easy winding of his arms around Dean's waist is anything to go by. It's like the fulfilment of some foregone resolution they've been struggling to avoid.

They make do with what they have, small supplies Dean has kept grimly in his wallet since before Christmas. Their kisses are slow and deep in a way they've never been before, and they don't need to talk about it but Aidan is the one who ends up on his back. When Dean breaks from his lips to slide his hands up beneath Aidan's t-shirt, he realises Aidan is shaking.

“Are you okay?”

Aidan swallows. “Yes.”

“And you've... have you done this before?”

Another swallow, and Aidan averts his gaze. Dean holds his breath, but then Aidan nods, slightly, eyes closing for one brief moment.

“Once or twice,” he says reluctantly, and Dean isn't entirely sure whether or not he believes him. “Just go really slow, yeah?”

Which isn't how Dean expected it to be – and he's spent a fair amount of time thinking about this ever since they kissed after the second Friday's céilí – because he sort of thought Aidan would be like blistering wildfire in all aspects of life, and thought accordingly that when this happened, _if_ it happened, it would be quick and starved.

So he's caught by surprise. But then he undresses Aidan, and undresses himself, and Aidan blinks up at him boldly, unashamedly, maybe even a little curiously, and all Dean wants is to learn his body in slow, sweltering hours.

Aidan cries out into the stillness of the bedroom when Dean moves down the length of his body and eases one, then two slicked fingers into him, and wraps his lips around Aidan's length. He sucks him off with an efficiency he doesn't intend to use with Aidan ever again, but it's necessary now. When Dean pushes those two fingers in to the second knuckle and _curls_ , Aidan chokes out his name with his fingers clenched in Dean's sweat-slicked hair and comes easily.

“Dean,” he groans, “God, Dean, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, I'm - I'm sorry.”

Dean's fingers have eased their way out, and he moves back up to kiss Aidan quiet.

“It's what I wanted,” he whispers. “I wanted you to relax. It'll feel better this way.”

“Right,” says Aidan, sucking in a shy breath like he'd known that all along. “No, right, yeah, of course.”

They lie together while Aidan gets his breath back, gentle little huffs spilling sleepily from his lips. Dean presses feather light kisses to his neck and collarbone, warm, salty skin he hasn't had a chance to taste till now. Long moments of quiet pass, and then Dean gently rolls Aidan on to his front, trails his hand down the long line of his back and pushes two slow fingers into Aidan's body where he's still open. Aidan mewls for it, soft and punched-out, _willing_.

When Dean finally moves to lock Aidan's hips between his knees and starts pushing into him, the strain to keep quiet is clear in the way Aidan bites into the pillow beneath him, eyes squeezed shut. Dean's hurting him, he knows he is, but it's slow, so agonizingly slow, and when he's halfway in he spreads himself over Aidan's back, sweating and panting, and showers his neck and shoulders with kisses. Aidan barely whimpers when Dean slowly sinks the rest of the way in.

And somewhere between that and a choked, pleased moan of his own, Dean's lines of who he should be focusing on here begin to blur. Because he cares about Aidan so much, and God knows he wants this to be good for him, but _Christ_ , it's searing and tight and painfully _good_ , and it's all Dean can do to keep from grinding down hard, fucking Aidan firmly into the mattress straight away.

He runs shaky hands up the warm expanse of Aidan's back, sucks in a steadying breath, and starts to move.

“Christ, Aid, you're...”

His fingers curl around Aidan's shoulders; he rocks his hips forward, slowly, hesitating when Aidan's face scrunches a little in pain. He says something which Dean doesn't quite catch at first and, thinking it to be a complaint, Dean immediately stops. Aidan says it again.

“No – keep going. It's okay.”

Dean lets out a shuddering breath at the words and sinks forward, pulls out and does it again, finally allowing himself to gently collapse and drape himself over Aidan's body as he ruts less than neatly into him, still slow, slower than Aidan is demanding but deep enough and hard enough to have Aidan pushing back into every clumsy drive, desperate, choked breaths spilling helplessly from his lips. He gets a hand up to his shoulder where Dean's holding on and pulls it around his neck, pressing it to his lips and moaning weakly when the tip of Dean's thumb slips into his mouth.

Dean isn't going to last long; he feels like he's going to fall apart just from this. He presses harder against Aidan's back, their skin sticking and pulling with sweat as he mouths at Aidan's neck and ear, the dampness of his dark, messy curls. Then Aidan turns his head, pushing back against him, and they kiss roughly, Dean licking his tongue past the seam of Aidan's mouth and inside.

He can feel that slow, tell-tale roll of pleasure surging through his whole body, swelling in his spine, his toes, the pit of his belly, but Aidan finishes first; Dean gets a hand between Aidan's chest and the mattress, sweeping over the fever-hot skin, and another to his cock. It's slick and warm with pre-come, heavy and leaking in Dean's hand, and Aidan _sobs_ Dean's name into the pillow as he comes. Dean bites his own lip against a shout as he follows, pressing in deep and thrusting his way through the crescendo of it, before collapsing against Aidan's back, sending both of them crashing into the mattress.

Aidan's breathing is harsh. He looks wrecked and exhausted and really beautiful. Dean only just has the presence of mind to roll off him and lethargically take care of the condom before burying back into his side, pressing a kiss to rough, bitten lips. There's wetness beneath Aidan's eyes which Dean rubs gently away with his thumb. They fall asleep, forehead to forehead.

*

Hours later, overwhelmed by early morning fatigue, and with stark daylight filtering in through the curtains, Dean watches Aidan sleep once more and remembers the time nearly four weeks ago, when Aidan showed him all around the island. At the end of the afternoon they slipped their legs beneath the wooden railings which fenced off the pier, and Dean asked him if he would ever leave for good, and Aidan didn't properly answer.

“My mother, you know, she's forever complaining about how we have no internet,” he'd said, eyes bright in the grey light. “Says how can we run a proper business with no internet, _everyone_ 's on the internet now. And my dad, he won't listen. Says he's suspicious, says it's dangerous. And maybe he's right, I don't know.

But really, I think he wants to keep us safe. He wants only people who've been looking for us to find us. People like you, Dean, people who went out of their way to find what they wanted. I don't think enough people know what they want. Get everything handed to them on a plate all at once, and assume everyone wants the same. S'like the whole world's on a horse cart and they're trying to drag us along.

And we're in this fish bowl, and they gawp at us and they laugh – they do, they laugh – and they think we're not all there. Tourists come and visit, complain there's no computer. 'How can you not have Wi-Fi, how can you not have Sky?' Sky! What's _Sky_? People need only open their eyes and look up to see the sky, but they don't. They ask why we don't build more houses, more factories, why we still speak this language, this... dead language. What's it contributing to, who's it helping? Should be reason enough that there's no reason. It just is, and it's ours, and that's all. Why can't that ever be enough? Why does everything have to be answered, and here, and now, you know, who's _that_ helping?

Course, that's not a 'progressive' way of thinking. Maybe I'm being stubborn, maybe I _am_ just a dumb farmer's boy. D'you think _I_ don't question things, Dean? Course I do. But not having all the answers, it's... it's alright, you know? Not knowing why a rainbow appears doesn't mean it's not beautiful, right?”

Then he'd shaken his head and blushed, made bashful by his own sentimentality.

“I just think there's so much beauty in the world, and sometimes we spend too much time asking why it's there. As though it shouldn't be.”

*

Aidan kisses him goodbye before collecting the key to Lucky Number Seven and pocketing it. But it's his embrace more than anything, the warm wrapping of his arms, which satisfies a low, sulking hunger.

Dean drives the Vauxhall past the fields of sheep, avoids the ditch, gets to the port to find his ferry delayed, sits sipping stale coffee in the rain. Then he boards and sails to Baltimore, returns the car and pockets the deposit. Four hours later he's on a plane. A day later he's unlocking the door to his apartment.

It has stayed loyal in his absence, the picture of neatness he left it in. He bins the clutch of junk mail collected from his pigeon hole downstairs, leaves his suitcase in the living room and goes out on to the balcony.

Sun, hot and unmoving, drenches him for the first time in a month. He isn't sure he's missed it much. Somehow it doesn't feel very unfamiliar.

He allows one day for misery. Then life goes on. He has commissions to work on, poker to play, a treadmill to run, neighbours to be resolutely ignored by. It's a busy life in Auckland city, one that hasn't stopped in his absence. The phone rings constantly, till one night he storms from his bedroom and yanks the cord from the wall so hard it snaps.

He moves to the desk then, clears aside the photographs for work, the piles of spare foreign notes he never had to spend and which he hasn't got round to changing back into dollars. He takes his unpacked watercolours from his suitcase.

Drawing the blinds against the city he finishes by lamplight the painting he just wasn't quick enough with on Iarthar. It takes two days before the farm is bright beneath his brush, dotted with a blue sky which is never really there, lambs twee but faithful to the truth of the land in the distance, dots of colour signifying ridiculous, oversized rain macs.

He lets it dry over night and the next day walks into town, exchanges the cash and leaves with a pile of dollar bills, not unlike the one he set out with the last time he was here in the city centre, one month ago.

When he gets home the painting is bone-dry; he wraps it carefully, pads it three times and slips it into a box. He thinks about a letter, a postcard, a note. In the end he tucks only the plane ticket inside, and seals the box with tape.

End


End file.
